A Dream before Dying
by MissDillyDilly
Summary: Five years after Nemesis, Picard meets an old adversary and an old friend… This is a slash story, and is rated T for Data/Picard. There will be a separately-posted M-rated sequel.
1. Chapter 1

**A dream before dying**

**Summary**: Five years after _Nemesis_, Picard meets an old adversary and an old friend… This is a slash story, and while Chapter 1 is rated T, this will be changed to M (for Data/Picard) when later chapters are posted.

**Disclaimers**: I have made no money from writing this story. I do not own anything connected with any of the Star Trek franchises, which all seem to belong to a complex combination of CBS, Viacom and Paramount. Neither do I own either Commander Data or Brent Spiner – if I did, you think I'd be wasting my time typing???

**A/N**: There are many excellent post-_Nemesis_ stories out there: this is simply another stab at resolving the emptiness left by the end of that remarkable movie. It's also my response to Brent Spiner's statement (challenge?) that he was getting too old to play Data. Too old, sweetie? Never!

* * *

Chapter 1

The _Enterprise_ hung silently, a beautiful, closed white pearl in the open blackness of space. Her lights bathed the emptiness around her, and her pale beauty would have taken any passing species' breath away.

Throughout the long, curving corridors that ran the length and breadth of her, that external motionlessness was reflected in the subdued mood of her crew. Science projects were quietly continued, medical research went calmly on, children were taught gentle lessons, but something was strangely amiss: the atmosphere was dull, without edge, and infinitely tinged with sadness.

In a room with the lights dimmed to a safe and cradling intimacy, Commander Geordi La Forge sat by a bedside. His face showed the resignation of despair, and his cheeks were streaked with the dry paths of old tears. After weeks of frantic, desperate activity, largely without sleep and too frequently without food, he had done ranting at the world and was almost at peace, holding the hand of his dearest friend as he slipped out of life into the beyond. Occasionally the still figure on the bed tightened his grip on Geordi's fingers, but the pressure never lasted, and soon, he knew, it would be gone forever.

No-one else was here: all business was over, all goodbyes said. This was a time for these two alone. As the _Enterprise_'s crew worked with scarcely-held breaths, Geordi sat and shared his Captain's last, quiet hours.

He dozed a little sometimes, and occasionally he spoke, unaware if the dying man could recognise anything in this world, let alone his Chief Engineer's soft voice. But the doctor had said that, deep in a coma as he was, there was still a chance that the Captain could hear the sounds around him, and Geordi was going to hang on to him – let him know he was worth the trouble of a conversation – until the very last. He gazed at the beautiful, pale face, knowing that the time was fast coming when he would never see it again except in log entries and holos; that soon he would reach out to touch his friend and would find only emptiness in his outstretched hands.

A sudden movement caught his tired glance: behind his closed lids, the Captain's eyes flew from side to side with hysterical, directionless energy. Whatever was going on in that formerly magnificent brain, life still struggled for expression there.

Geordi smoothed the receding silver hair back from the still-unlined forehead. He would have given his heart's blood to save this man's life, but he knew that, even if his body was drained of every last drop, it would do no good. All he could do was wait until the end, keeping vigil with his friend as he walked the loneliest road of all.

"Sweet dreams, Data," he whispered.

* * *

A universe away, Captain Jean-Luc Picard was woken from his own deep but less final sleep by the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that he was not alone. In the room's dimness, he caught a movement in the shadows, and immediately reached for the comm, but found his hand held back by an unseen force.

"Who's there?" he called, not particularly worried but nevertheless irritated at being disturbed. Who would be able to penetrate the _Enterprise_'s defences without alerting security? He soon received his answer: the vague movement unfolded and emerged from the darkness, resolving itself into a human form that Picard recognised, and only too well.

He uncurled himself and sat up, an impatient expression on his face.

"What, no word of greeting for me, _mon Capitaine_?"

"Q."

The other man, resplendent in an admiral's colours rather than the humble captain's he usually wore, had clearly hoped for more. "More of a statement than a greeting, but I suppose it will have to do. You always were rather ungracious."

"What do you want?"

"There you go again, you see? No finesse, no style, no – "

"Q!"

Q sighed, contriving to look hurt and almost pulling it off. "Surprisingly, Jean-Luc, I am on a mission of mercy. No, don't look so incredulous. It's not of my choosing I assure you but, having been given the job, I shall do it to the best of my ability. I need you to join me in a walk through another man's dreams, Jean-Luc. Will you?"

Picard stared at him. Q seemed serious – unwontedly so – but what was this about a mission of mercy? Q, on a mission of mercy? What was the expression – you might as well ask a Ferengi to donate to charity? And yet… The man's eyes were sincere, but they had often been so before, and it had meant nothing. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me exactly what's going on. You can't expect me to follow you just on your whim!"

Q pouted. "And I thought you would follow me to the end of the world. Ah well, such is the fickle nature of man. No, Captain, this is a much more serious business, I'm afraid. A matter of life and death, you might say."

"Life and death?"

"Yes – the end of something astonishing. But not here. Not within your experience, Jean-Luc. We've got much further to go than that."

Picard was intrigued in spite of himself, but Q's smugness annoyed him. He shook his head: the man had to be reined in. "Q, are you going to tell me – "

"No, I am not! Enough! Oh dear, we'll have to get you dressed…" Q snapped his fingers and, despite the protests that died in his throat, Picard found himself clothed, shod, and whisked away to another world entirely.

To another universe, where history had unfolded subtly differently: where its course had run nearly – so very nearly – parallel to his own. Until five years previously, when everything had come apart.

* * *

Captain Data rose from his bed, and looked back to see his beloved Geordi holding his own hand. It was a strange sensation, and he was puzzled. He knew he was dying – unexpected as it had been, he had accepted that fact's inevitability together with the silvering hair, the loss of muscle tone, the shading of his skin from cream to a colour close to that of Caucasian humans – but had assumed that cessation of function would be the end of everything. Despite hints that he might possess a soul, and still-prevalent beliefs among many species that any such soul would be immortal, he certainly had no expectations of any form of existence after death.

So what was he doing here, dressed in graceful clothes, watching himself?

He looked around, and immediately felt a compulsion to leave the room. His feet moved almost of their own volition: he was fairly sure he could have remained still had he wanted to, but he was too interested in where he might be going to stop. Out of the door, down the hall – no-one else seemed to be here, which he thought odd, but in the interests of scientific endeavour perhaps he should just accept it and keep walking. It was rather unsettling, walking he knew not where and being in two places in once; but his curiosity was strong, even in death, and a small part of his decaying neural net found the whole thing intriguing and exciting.

As he walked, he gradually became aware that he was not alone. Beside him moved a tall, heavily-featured man he thought he had never seen before; he felt he ought to have been alarmed, but instinctively knew that his companion meant him no harm. The man kept pace with him but did not speak and, at last, Data stopped and turned towards him. "May I ask why you are following me?"

The man grinned. "You may ask, my dear Captain Data – what a strange sound that has! – but I may not choose to answer."

Data blinked. Whoever this was, he was most perplexing. "I see no reason for you to speak in riddles," he replied, "or to deny me an answer."

"You haven't changed."

"Do I know you?" He felt a positron sequence trying to fire, and failing.

"No. And yes! Come with me, my little android, and all will be revealed."

Data opened his mouth to speak again, then decided that there was little point: his unlooked-for companion apparently had no intention of enlightening him but, as he appeared to be taking him towards the answers he sought, continuing to walk with him seemed to be the most sensible course. Making their way through the corridors, however, he felt his trepidation grow: the configuration of these halls was not quite as he remembered it, and they seemed to double back on themselves and cross their own path several times in their wanderings, but he knew that their meanderings were taking them inexorably in a direction that he had not trodden in a long time, and had no wish to tread now. The last time he had walked these corridors had been – he stopped, unable to go further.

"What?" his companion asked impatiently.

"We are approaching – " he tried to say the name, and found that, even after all these years, he still could not without the danger of his vocal subroutines malfunctioning. His beloved Jean-Luc, dead through Shinzon's malice and hubris, not even a body to bring home, just a long walk down empty hallways and a room to be secured, quarters to be sealed… "I do not wish to walk further with you."

"But you will." The stranger took his arm, and in spite of his deep desire never to see those bereft spaces again, Data found himself drawn along, down this corridor then the next, towards pain, despair, the unfriended space where a friend should be… He began to panic, and tried to deactivate his emotion chip, always a last resort but possibly allowable in this strangest of situations. He could not do it, and glanced in alarm at the man beside him. "No – naughty, naughty, Mr Data. You're going to need that."

"I do not – " Data gathered his wits, slowed his positronic firing rate, and fought for control. It was surprisingly difficult to achieve. Abruptly, they were at what appeared to be their destination; he raggedly indicated the closed doors, behind which there had once been so much, and now was – nothing. "I do not wish to enter Captain Picard's quarters. I have not done so since – since my Captain died. I do not wish to do so now."

"Squeamish, Commander – sorry, Captain? Or afraid of ghosts?"

Data flinched, though he did not know why. Today, he seemed to be experiencing the full weakness of the human condition; how ironic, he thought, to achieve his life's ambition just as he was about to die. "Captain Picard gave his life so that I and this crew – this galaxy – might survive," he said quietly. "I think of him – and mourn him – every day. I do not think it unreasonable that I would find it painful to stand in the quarters he used to occupy."

The other man was silent for a moment. "You're quite the sentimentalist in this universe," he said. "It's almost endearing."

Data's circuits experienced a sudden surge. Complex links, previously disconnected, cemented themselves into his neural pathways, and information of which he had not – at least not since he began to die – been aware became abruptly available. With a shock that was not entirely artificial, he knew with whom he walked. He experienced the sort of frisson he assumed Captain Picard had often known: anticipation, and not entirely of the pleasant kind. He turned to his companion and looked him in the eye. "Q!"

"You sound just like Picard," Q said, in something like irritation. "Why am I never given a warm welcome when I visit my friends on the _Enterprise_?"

"Perhaps because you have no friends on the _Enterprise_," Data replied drily, sounding more like the Data of old than he had for some months. "You are not generally a harbinger of good news."

"A harbinger!" Q exclaimed in childish delight. "What a wonderful word! Me, a harbinger!" His face, mercurial as always, suddenly became serious. "What would you like me to 'harbinge' for you, Mr Data, hmm? How can I make your dreams come true?"

The flippant question struck Data as viciously as if it had been a physical blow. The emotional drain of the last few days, as it had become obvious that system after system within him was failing, and their current proximity to Jean-Luc Picard's quarters, a reminder of past joy and the extent of what he had lost, combined to open his imaginative programs to possibilities that were not only impractical, but deeply foolish.

He stared at his companion, the anguish behind his eyes as real as if they had been human. "Unless you can change the course of events five years ago," he said flatly, "which I assume would be a challenge even for you, you cannot, as you put it, 'make my dreams come true'. I have no dreams."

"Oh, poor you. What a sad admission. Well, if you haven't any dreams, you won't want to know who's waiting for you in there, will you? Come along, back to your deathbed."

Waiting? Data's eyes turned back to the blank door, behind which he had shed so many unshared tears. His public reaction to Picard's death had been of a piece with his public reaction to most things: calm, emotionally-controlled, practical. Only when alone with the ghosts and the memories had he allowed himself to indulge in the entirely human response of weeping for his dead friend. The tears he had cried in that room had eventually led to a serious fluidic depletion in his circuitry, and Geordi had told him that unless he wanted to damage himself permanently, he would have to stop. From then on, although his grief was as deep and as real as before, it went unexpressed.

"I do not understand what satisfaction you gain from the manipulation of those unable to defend themselves," he said. "Yet I assume that you must find pleasure in attempting to goad me. You are clearly aware of the nature of my – " he hesitated, but only for a tenth of a second or so " – feelings for Captain Picard. I do not intend to gratify you with a display of emotion."

"I could make you cry," Q said conversationally.

"You could, but where would be the gratification in that? If you have something to show me, then do so. If not, I request that you let me die in peace."

"You're no fun. If you knew – "

"Q!" Jean-Luc Picard's powerfully distinctive voice, silenced forever five years before, filled the empty hall, which sucked up the sound like a sponge too long without water. "You've made your point. Now leave him alone."

"Always spoiling the fun," Q complained, an edge of petulance in his voice. "I was going to tell him – I wouldn't have let him go away without seeing you."

Data stood very still. As the familiar voice reached his processors, and his circuits identified the speaker and the fact that he could not possibly be speaking, files that he had placed into protective quarantine burst free and filled up his neural pathways with rich, active memories and anticipations that he had thought were backed up and safely in long term storage for ever. Every synapse was firing, a sort of electronic fireworks display welcoming the impossible presence of his friend. He noted that his internal temperature had risen, and quickly adjusted for the change. He had never known such disorientation.

Unable under Q's influence to disengage his emotion chip – even though he knew that was the coward's path – he was almost overwhelmed by his mental and physical response to the shock of hearing the long dead man's voice. He could see now, of course, that Q – how had he not recognised him immediately? His synaptic degradation must be further advanced than he had thought – had been leading to this ever since he had plucked him out of his peaceful slipping away towards oblivion, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer joy of the sight of the dead man, standing there as if alive. Rational thought ceased, and he felt tears well up in his eyes. His autonomic functions neutralised and dehydrated them. But the confusion, the terror, the elation – those he could not control.

His responses had taken over two seconds, and he found time to feel shame at his lack of self-discipline. But for Jean-Luc… He looked at him, still outlined in the doorway, and compassionate eyes of infinite depth met his own. He longed to move towards him – to run, although he was only two strides away – and fling himself childishly into the safety of his Captain's arms. Q was right: this moment was a crystallisation of all his dreams come true. He did not move, however: he knew, dying as he was, that he must be hallucinating, and he had no intention of gratifying Q with any further reaction to his cruelty. But then Picard spoke again, and all his gathering certainty was blown away.

"Mr Data – won't you come in?" Data saw, as if through another's eyes, Picard's hand rise towards him, open-palmed, welcoming him, beckoning him into the beautiful past. He stared at the gesture, trying to find words. There were none, so instead he concentrated on a motor response, and stepped forward. As he did so, Picard fell back, allowing him to move into the darkness of the room beyond. He walked as if in a dream, though not so unaware that he did not feel the brushing of their clothes as they passed. It shot through him like fire.

"Thank you, Q," he heard Picard's say in a firm voice. "I'll take it from here." He heard Q object, and Picard calmly and quietly set him aside. Still protecting him, he thought – still standing between him and danger, even now. Still the friend he would never deserve. The pain of Picard's death stabbed and raked him as if he was experiencing it for that first, awful, time, and he cried out, the other's sudden presence freeing him from the barriers he had placed around his emotional expression, and making its control impossible.

He was dimly aware of the doors closing, leaving Q outside; of staggering slightly, not knowing where he was, losing his bearings in a sea of fresh grief; of strong arms catching hold of him, supporting him, leading him to the soft, deep sofa and cradling him in their blessed constancy and warmth. He leant his head against the solid, trembling chest of this illusion. "You are not real," he whispered. "I am dying, and I am imagining you. You are not real."

He felt the illusion's free hand reach behind his head, pulling him closer into the protective embrace. "Oh, I'm real, Mr Data. I assure you, I'm very real."

* * *

_To be c__ontinued in Chapter 2_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Captain Data deliberately remained without movement or complex thought for over two minutes. He dampened his higher brain and motor functions, and allowed himself to experience, almost to the exclusion of all else, the warmth of the body whose arms held him close, the regular, reliable thumping of that body's artificial heart, and its gentle, rhythmic rocking. There was no sound.

He felt weak and dazed, but safe. Was this perhaps a good way to die? He could slip out of life almost unnoticed, secure in the embrace of his Captain. His dead Captain. Dead, five years ago – he had to remember that. That was a bitter, unchangeable reality he must hold on to, in spite of the pain; to do otherwise would dishonour Jean-Luc's memory. This man might look like Jean-Luc, but he was not, even if his voice, his appearance, his scent, were all the same.

He struggled to sit up, and steadied himself, trying to avoid Picard's concerned, liquid eyes. The shape of the hands was identical, down to the last millimetre – down to the arrangement of tiny, virtually invisible hairs that no human would normally see. The timbre of the voice was as his Captain's had been, the modulations identical, the small noises of concern that he held in his throat for fear of seeming too protective – all were the same. The temptation to accept this as – what? Some sort of divine gift? – was almost irresistible, and the yearning, after so many years alone, was like the delicious reopening of a freshly-healed wound. If this was a dream, he thought, perhaps he should turn his back on reality and embrace the fantasy. He was dying: did it really matter? Was he dead already? Was this an afterlife – was he indeed to spend eternity with the man he so deeply loved? Or was this just an hallucination, brought on by a combination of old, unresolved grief and misfiring positrons?

Limply, he supported himself on the sofa. He noticed that this other Picard did not withdraw, keeping an arm stretched out behind him and a hand resting gently on his forearm. Data brought his full neural net back on line – limited as it now was – and registered that the hand was half a degree hotter than the human average. He also detected a slight tremor, and briefly wondered why. He noticed that he, too, was trembling.

"If you are not – my Jean-Luc Picard," he said, "then who are you? You claim to be real, but I cannot accept that as fact. My – he died five years ago." He paused as his vocal subroutine faltered, distressed that he could not control it more efficiently. "Why have you assumed his appearance?"

He still avoided making eye contact, though his instinct told him that the man wanted to be looked at. After a pause, he received an answer. "I _am_ Jean-Luc Picard." The voice was deep and soft, commanding and gentle; just as his own captain's had been. "But no, not your Jean-Luc Picard. Q brought me here from – from another universe."

"Q – yes. He brought me here as well – I should be in my quarters but he…" He tried to organise his thoughts, but they seemed to be only randomly accessible. "I suppose this is a dream. I do not see how you can be real." And he finally turned to face his companion.

Picard was smiling – a subtle, reassuring smile. Data had seen that smile a thousand times before, when his Captain needed to make someone who was vulnerable feel safe. And now he was using it on him?

"Tell me what happened."

"I do not understand."

"What happened to your Picard?"

Data's stomach lurched, though he remained externally still. Even to think of those terrible events aboard Shinzon's ship made him feel sick – ironic, for an android who did not need to eat. Speaking of them was something he consciously avoided. "I do not see the point of discussing such matters," he said flatly. His beloved Jean-Luc, blown to the four quadrants…

"I'm sorry," the stranger replied. "Then – I'll tell you about my Data." He cleared his throat and took Data's unresisting hand in his own – perhaps, Data thought, needing the physical contact as much as he did – and started to speak.

At first, Data only caught one word in three. The story was painfully familiar, ghastly in its inevitability, and he knew that, whoever this man was and wherever he was from, he had trodden Data's own bitter path. The clone, the weapon, the madness – all were as he remembered them from his own experience, and he struggled not to let his feelings of loss overwhelm him as Picard spoke.

Gradually, however, he became aware that the two stories had begun to diverge, and found himself paying more attention. This Picard had become trapped when the _Enterprise_'s transporters failed; his Data had followed him, determined – as Data would have been – to save his Captain at any cost. And yet, he knew from Picard's narrative, they had been only friends…

And this Picard had been saved by the selfless act of someone who loved him better than life itself. This Picard had lost his Data five years ago, as Data had lost his own Captain. Their experiences almost exactly mirrored each other, except that a different death had devastated each and utterly changed their worlds.

As he listened, Data realised the respect and affection in which the dead android from this far-away place had been held, and felt foolishly unworthy. He had thought that no-one could bear this intensity of loss; clearly, this man had shouldered that burden, and more. Because, unlike Data, this man blamed himself for the death of his friend. The weight of the guilt must have been terrible, and Data almost glanced at the man's shoulders to see if they had bowed under the strain.

"Since his death," Picard was saying, "I have tried to live up to what I thought were his ideals, his – " he appeared to search for the right word " – his purity, I suppose. In spite of everything – the Borg, Lore – he was always loyal, faithful, true. Far truer than most humans." He sighed humourlessly. "I'm making him sound like a particularly intelligent dog. That's probably how Q would describe him. But he was so much more – so much more! He – " he stopped, and gave an embarrassed laugh. "He was you, Data; I don't need to be his advocate. I miss him. I miss his humour, his humanity – everything he was striving to become and would never believe he'd achieved. I didn't have the chance to say anything – it all happened so quickly. I couldn't even say thank you."

His voice broke, and Data saw the mirror to his own deep grief. Although he still needed healing himself, here was someone who, perhaps, needed healing more. Carefully, he placed his free hand over Picard's. "You did not need to," he said. "If your friendship with him was anything like mine with my Captain, he would have known."

"I wish I could be sure of that, Mr Data."

"Why do you call me that?" Data asked curiously. It was not a form of address his own Captain had used.

"I – " Picard stopped, apparently at a loss to answer his simple question. "I don't know – habit, I suppose. What did your Captain call you?"

"Commander. Or Data." What Jean-Luc had called him in the privacy of their quarters was not for other ears. He fell silent, fighting to control the sudden weakness that threatened to overwhelm him as he struggled with so many conflicting emotions.

"I'm sorry," repeated Picard. "It happened differently for you."

Data recognised the obvious statement as an effort at brotherhood, and was surprised. Did this man see him as an equal? Despite their long and passionate relationship, something in one of his rarely used memory banks registered that this was not entirely how Jean-Luc had seen him. He quickly transferred the data out of currently accessed files: this was no time for comparisons between the imaginary and the dead. "My Captain was already dead by the time I reached the _Scimitar_," he said. "Shinzon had already… They were both dead." He felt the pressure on his hand increase. "Jean-Luc had damaged the weapon, but not disabled it. I had to render it harmless before it detonated. The radiation levels were dangerously high even for me, so I then returned to the _Enterprise_ alone, waiting for them to fall, but Shinzon had initiated a self-destruct sequence of which I was unaware, and the ship exploded before I could retrieve his – him." He could not say the word 'body'.

"Oh, Data…" He felt Picard's arm tighten about his shoulders, and saw that the man had his eyes closed in sympathy. They were silent for a while, and then Picard spoke. "And here we are, having found each other, through Q."

"Do you know what he wants, Captain?" It was the first time he had called his visitor by any name, but despite its strangeness, it seemed appropriate.

"For once, he seems to be genuine," Picard replied. "He appears to have rubbed the Continuum up the wrong way – yet again – and this is their punishment. Go forth and do good deeds!" He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that made Data tremble with a strange pleasure. "Q, doing community service!"

"I have often observed," Data began uncertainly, "that humans, after the death of a loved one, express regret for things not said during life. Perhaps Q thinks there is something we need to say to each other." He stopped, suddenly. He had not planned such a speech, and had no intention of manipulating this Picard into any declaration of feelings so clearly not held, any demonstration of emotions so clearly not felt. So why had he said those dangerous words?

But the other man seemed merely thoughtful. "Regret!" he said. "I regret not taking that damned emergency transport unit with me. If I had, he would have had no reason to follow. And I regret not thanking him – but I suppose he understood. He was – he knew all of us better than we knew ourselves, because he wasn't afraid to look into places we would rather not go." He bowed his head, as if to hide tears. "I miss him." He breathed raggedly for a few moments, then said in a voice that was slightly too loud for the room, "but you must tell me, Mr Data – why the changed appearance?"

"Sir?" _Strange, how old habits of command and submission so quickly reassert themselves._

"When – you – your hair was dark, you looked – different," Picard said falteringly.

Data smiled wanly. "Do you know how thalaron radiation works?" Picard shook his head. Data was tempted to share all the specifics of radiation dispersal, flesh breakdown, rates of atrophy and equations of decay, but realised that neither he nor his companion had time for such things. "Dr Crusher was correct in her statement that it is inimical to life. It operates by rapidly accelerating the ageing process until there is no more tissue left to degrade. Flesh turns to ash in seconds – "

" – and metal becomes fatigued, polymers unravel," Picard said. "You were exposed to the radiation, and – and aged."

"As any human would have aged, though of course not with the same devastating effects. But Shinzon's weapon ended my life as surely as it ended the lives of all those in the Romulan senate, and would have ended the lives of all those on the _Enterprise_ and for light years beyond. I am fortunate to have survived for five years." He paused. "It will not be long now."

"But, Data, there must – surely Geordi…"

"No, Captain. Perversely, Shinzon has helped me to finally achieve humanity. All humans die, and so will I. Perhaps in some way I should be grateful to him."

"I think not," growled Picard, and for a long time neither of them spoke, each wrapped alone in his own memories, grief and dreams. The heavy warmth of Picard's hand was, in spite of everything, a deep source of comfort.

But in the stillness, and in spite of that warmth, Data shivered – a strangely involuntary action, he thought, for someone whose actions would all soon be stilled forever. "I apologise, Captain," he said. "I can no longer regulate my internal temperature. I am cold."

As if in reply, Jean-Luc moved away, and Data wanted to cry out at the sudden loss: bereft of physical comfort, he shrank a little closer to dying. Then he felt strong, living arms around him, lifting and gently carrying him across the room, through the doorway, over to the bed. With infinite care, he was laid down on the soft surface, and the light, warm covers pulled over him. He shivered again, and this time not entirely from the cold: this was the bed he and Jean-Luc had shared more times than he could now remember, and being here again, alone, made him feel like an intruder.

But he was not alone. If only this man – this Jean-Luc – could for just a moment be his… The old longing, so familiar and so futile, tightened his stomach, and he gasped in almost physical pain. He realised that Picard was still holding his hand, and tightened his grip as if it was the only thing keeping him from drowning. He wanted to speak, to say something of his love for his dear, dead friend before it was too late, to make this man, so similar and yet so utterly different, understand… He opened his lips, trying to bridge the mysterious gap between the living and the dying. He wanted to say that he was afraid, but all that came out was an echo of his previous words.

"Cold."

There was a moment's pause, when he thought perhaps that his companion had not heard. Then the other man moved, carefully and decisively, sliding beneath the covers to lie at his side, body to body, hand to hand, lending the dying android his own life's warmth. Data felt himself cradled against that massive, pulsing vitality, and drew new strength from it. He tried to offer an answering embrace, but could not: his motor functions were becoming increasingly erratic, and his mechanical muscles would no longer respond to his mental commands.

He could have wept with frustration, but recognised that the swift deterioration in his condition had been at least partially arrested by Picard's action. Why, he wondered, should his circuits need warmth?

Perhaps they just needed love.

He blinked in the dim light, and realised how close the other man's face was to his own. Concentrating all of his fading perception on the details of Picard's features, he fixed on the strong, straight nose; the mouth, full and firm; the texture of the skin, coarser than he remembered but still healthy and glowing; the eyes, always a soft, pale brown that shifted with emotion into hazel, shining hot and heavy with tears. Tears – tears?

This stranger was crying for him?

As he struggled to understand, one of those tears overflowed and spilled down onto Data's upturned face. He felt its heat as it struck his cheek, and then its chill as it began to cool. Closing his eyes, he gave in to the imperative of his own grief, and artificial tears mixed and mingled with those that were human. He wanted Jean-Luc so much…

Then the man who held him shifted his weight, and brought his free hand up to Data's wet face. With a touch as light as thought, gentle fingers stroked his skin with the closest thing to love he had felt in five long years. They brushed him with a caress that lasted longer than the tears they wiped away, and without thinking he opened his lips, catching the smooth skin as it passed over his mouth, closing on it as it moved, hungry for more. At the salty taste his chest contracted, and he felt himself responding to the sensation, demanding a physicality that he knew this man could not give, but unable to control his motor functions to suppress the movement. He hoped his comforter had not noticed.

"Jean-Luc," he whispered. In the haze of confused perceptions, neural pathways failing, finding new default routes and crossing with others they had never been designed to interface with, he almost believed that his dead lover really held him. "Jean-Luc…"

Then he felt a new thing. Something brushed his lips, ever so slightly, but it was not the touch of fingers. Startled, he opened his eyes, and his lashes moved against Picard's cheek as the other slowly withdrew. As he struggled to focus, he saw that the human's tears had cleared, revealing the emotions behind them: compassion, anguish, and deep, heartfelt affection. And – love? Dare he hope it might be love?

Picard's hand moved to his face again, stroking the pale skin now without the excuse of tears. He heard his name whispered, and felt the heat of the touch. The thumb rested delicately and deliberately on his lips, and he opened them, taking the sweet saltiness into his mouth once more like a benediction. Again, his dying body responded involuntarily.

This time, Picard noticed. He felt the sudden tension in the other man, saw the struggle to comprehend in his eyes, slowly fading as the hand tentatively but deliberately moved down his body to cover the parts of him that the other Picard had found most beautiful. He felt the uncertainty of the contact through the thin fabric of his clothing, and strained to lean into it. The hand enfolded him, holding him securely in its gentle violence, and his whole being thrilled to a touch he thought he would never know again.

But he was too weak to respond, and finally the hand moved back to his face, to rest there once again with unspoken tenderness. Words drifted to him through the gathering mist. "What would you have me do, Data? I'll do anything for you – you know I will – tell me what you would have me do." He heard the catch in Picard's voice.

He tried to open his eyes, and became aware that the edges of the room were dark. Picard's face remained within his sight, still clear and strong, and he looked for the last time at the lips of the man he loved. "Kiss me," he tried to say – surely after such a touch, this Picard would not deny him that? – but the words would not come. He struggled for a moment, then gave up the fight. Keeping his eyes fixed on Picard's mouth, he let his lids begin to fall, shutting out the day forever as he moved into eternal night.

Without warning, he felt the sensation of soft lips on his own and knew that, somehow, Picard had understood. With the last of his functioning consciousness, he opened to the gently insistent touch – oh, so gentle! – and accepted Picard's final gift. The human gave of himself entirely, holding Data close as the kiss grew deeper, more passionate and more powerful, and Data was lost in the dizzy, overwhelming sensations of lips crushed to lips, tongue exploring tongue, body pressed against body as if with a single thought they might merge forever into one. He had never felt so completely known, and when Picard's hand again drifted down to hold him in that firm caress, he understood that the gesture was not for him alone.

This man loved him.

When Picard broke the intensity of the kiss, he let his mouth rest on Data's for a few seconds. Exhausted and filled with warmth, tears bathing his closed eyes with soothing balm, Data was, for a moment, completely happy. He thought he whispered, _I love you_. And he thought he heard Picard's soft reply. _I know_.

And then the darkness came.

* * *

_To be c__ontinued in Chapter 3_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Picard's fingernails dug into his palms. He tried to keep calm: a show of emotion would only irritate the being who stood, quizzically, before him. His breath came more quickly: he had to speak, before Q left and the possibility of knowing was gone forever. He yearned to know, with all his being, but also dreaded the answer he might receive. What if none of this had happened after all? What if Data's had not been the only dream?

Clenching his hands till he was sure they must bleed, he finally managed to speak. "Was it real?" he said abruptly; then, unable to find more words, fell silent.

"As real as you or I."

Picard shook his head slightly. "No, Q, tell me – I must know – was – was he real? Was that another universe, another Data, one who survived? Was I really there?"

"Why should I know, Jean-Luc. Were you? What do you think?"

"Q," Picard said, and his voice shook with his desperation. "Please, tell me. Tell me he survives."

"Why is it important? He didn't here – surely that's all that matters? You're as uselessly sentimental as he is!"

"No – no!" Picard moved forward, his eyes fiery from the passion flaring within him. "Here – I know he was lost here – but if he's alive elsewhere, then he lives on, not just in our memories, but in reality – another reality, somewhere." It had to be true – he couldn't bear it if Data were truly, completely, gone. He thought of the android's body, held close against his own, so precious, so vulnerable, so utterly out of reach, and found his own responding in ways that seemed entirely inappropriate. But Data had been so – so – _beautiful…_

"And that's important to you?" Q sounded genuinely puzzled.

"Yes!" Shoulders trembling with barely-controlled emotion, Picard faced the man who had been his accuser, tormentor and now, perversely, his blessing. His voice was thick with longing. "Q – please!" He tried to calm himself. "If it was all a dream, to comfort – console me, then it was a wonderful dream, but he's still – gone. But if it was real, then somewhere, in some other dimension, he's alive. I know he was dying – but if he truly survived in that universe, then there must be countless others where he lived, countless others where he is still alive, still – still happy…" His voice trailed off. The Data he had met had not been happy. He had seen the emptiness in those golden eyes from long years alone, but seen it fade, too, as the android accepted the impossible and miraculous fact that Picard had been restored to him. Perhaps he should not wish Data alive again, not with that void in his heart. Was he just soothing his own guilt, rather than truly thinking of his friend?

It was a few moments before he noticed that Q was watching him keenly, and he realised that he had become lost in the intensity of a private reverie. He squared his shoulders, and concentrated on the present again.

"You already know the answer to that question, Captain," Q said. "But that's not what you really want to ask me."

_Isn't it? Do I dare?_ "What do I really want to ask you, Q?"

"Oh, Jean-Luc, don't be so disingenuous. You want him back, don't you?"

Picard forgot to breathe. To have his old friend at his side again – damaged, different as he was – made his mouth dry with terror and anticipation. His stomach leaped in expectation of – what? He was almost afraid to find out, but the feeling was new, and subtly different. What had Data done to him? He knew Q could do it – and if he could, did that mean that the man he had so recently met _had _been real? Or was he a figment of Picard's grieving imagination? And would any replacement – not that there ever could be a replacement – also be a figment of his imagination? And what about Geordi?

He stopped, completely, for a moment. Geordi – the loyal, reliable friend who had been at Data's side as he died in that other universe – he would have lost both his captains. Should Picard not ask that Q restore Data to Geordi, rather than to him? Was he strong enough to make that sacrifice? He felt as if he was standing on a ledge at the edge of a precipice, fated to fall if he went forward, and fated to fall if he stepped back. There was no way he could win. Data could never be restored, to him, to Geordi, to anyone. His soul howled with fury and despair.

A flood of emptiness swept over him, the mental tide knocking him off his feet. He sat down abruptly, his head slumped and his hands hanging uselessly between his knees. In utter desolation, he hardly noticed the scalding tears that dropped uncontrolled to the carpet beneath, although they gave him, in spite of himself, some relief. He felt as if he had just lost his friend all over again, as if he had been holding on to him for hours as he dangled over a bottomless chasm, only to allow him to slip from his grasp as rescue finally arrived. He had never known such hopelessness.

"Go away, Q," he rasped. "You've been here long enough."

"Why, Jean-Luc! That's no way to treat a friend."

Q's flippancy struck a sour note in the bitter-sweetness of Picard's emotions. He raised his eyes to the wounded expression on Q's face. "You are not my friend. You have never been my friend. We have tolerated you, accepted you, occasionally even helped you, but no more. You are no longer welcome here. I cannot forgive you for the pain you have caused me – the pain you have caused a thousand other Picards – and I want nothing more to do with you." His words were full of passion, but his voice was almost a whisper: he did not have the strength for anything more.

Q seemed stunned by the tirade. "But I gave you the opportunity to say goodbye. I took you to him – gave you extra hours you needed but never thought you'd have. What more could I have done?"

Picard stood, exhaustion etched across his face. "You could have made it unnecessary to need those extra hours in the first place!" he hissed. "You could have been there – you could have prevented any of this from happening. Where were you, Q, when we needed you?" His voice rose as his anger focussed. "For years, you crashed into our lives when you weren't wanted, turned everything upside down for your own amusement – but when we really needed you – when you could have changed everything – saved his life! – where were you then? Why didn't you interfere then?"

"Why, I didn't know I was so valuable to you, _mon Capitaine_. You only had to ask."

Picard shook his head raggedly. "You could have done it, Q. Where were you?" The whispered question was a plea from the depths of Picard's desperate heart.

"We had our own problems." Q sounded slightly irritated, though whether from anger or embarrassment, Picard could not tell. "I had my own problems – in the end I even had to abandon my son – though perhaps that was a blessing for us both. The continuum was fragmenting again – we were fighting on a hundred fronts, across a dozen dimensions – I had no time for your miniscule human concerns. We were deciding the very future of the universe itself!"

"And Commander Data lost his life."

"Together with millions of others! One among many, Jean-Luc – what of all those others, hmm? Do I resurrect them as well? Or don't they matter because you don't care? And what about all the other people you've lost – do you really want to choose?"

Tasha, Robert, René, Data… His family or his friends? He knew before asking: Data – always it was Data. Picard bowed his head in shame, recognising the truth of at least some of Q's words. "I just wanted him back," he said softly. "I just – want him back…" He remained quiet for a while, then looked Q in the eye. "Thank you for that extra time. If it gave him some comfort, then it was worth it." He fought to control his voice. "But I think you should leave now. I don't want company at the moment." He was defeated, and he knew it. But if his presence had brought even a second's happiness to that other Data, all his renewed grief was a price worth paying. Some friendships are so precious that any sacrifice is worthwhile.

"It would certainly annoy the continuum if I gave him back to you," Q said thoughtfully. "I wonder if that's a good enough reason…"

"Please – enough!"

"I'm supposed to be improving the universe, remember? Why do you think I took you to see your beloved Commander in the first place? To restore him would surely be the logical outcome of everything that's happened, wouldn't you agree?"

Picard felt as if his insides were being removed, cell by agonising cell. "Stop this. Just – stop…"

"No, I don't think I will." Q paused, then grinned, impishly. "You shall have your wish, Jean-Luc. You _shall _go to the ball! Think kindly of me, my dear Captain, when you awake."

He snapped his fingers, and was gone, fading into the shadows as quickly as he had come.

Picard sat on the edge of his bed for hours, waiting. For what? Would Data simply appear out of thin air? Would anyone else be able to see him? Would he – the old question – be real? Should anyone be able to raise the dead? Would Q even keep his word? And why was the desperate longing he felt so much more acute now than before? In those few hours, which might just have been dreams, what had Data become to him?

Finally, exhausted, he lay down beneath the thin, reassuring bed covering. He fell asleep and curled up into a foetal ball, trying to make himself small enough to avoid the new, merciless pain.

* * *

It was cold and dark in the torpedo tube. Unable to move more than a few inches in this inhospitable prison, a human being would have died of cramp or madness: but this being was not human and, although aware, no life-signs would have registered on any passing sensors. The lonely occupant contemplated the universe, and his place in it, several thousand times before the insistent memories – which had been trying to break through ever since he had been transported into the space normally reserved for deadly circuits and explosives – finally crashed into his consciousness with such force that he was unable to banish them.

He had died – he knew that. In his Captain's imaginary arms, though his body – now a useless collection of spare parts and dark matrices – had lain with its hand in Geordi's in another room. He knew that time had passed. Then another hand had taken his own – a large, forceful one – and flung him back into consciousness. It was like being dealt a blow. Confused, he had heard – what? – something about going back, Jean-Luc Picard, Q…

Q! Q had been there. Q was sending him home.

But home was where he had been, where Picard had died, where Geordi had sat at his bedside. So where was this 'home' to which Q had summarily dispatched him? Home – there was only one home for him, and that was the _Enterprise_, with Captain Picard at her helm, that comforting presence at his back, watching over him, protecting him, loving him always.

His thoughts flashed to the few hours they had somehow spent together – how long ago now? As he had placed his head on the other man's chest he had felt the responding quiver, felt the certainty of strong arms and hands – but they had not been his Captain's arms. They had not been his Captain's hands. His Captain – the Jean-Luc who had looked into his eyes and laid down his life over five years ago – his Captain would have cherished him as he held him, raised his dying friend's face to his own for a final, passionate kiss, let his hand drift down to where it could cup Data's secret beauty through the thin, loose clothing, give him that last, final comfort of a firm touch holding him, keeping him safe within its enclosing, gentle grasp. That the hands that held him had done all these things – that did not make them his Captain's hands. His Captain would have taken Data's limp fingers and placed them on his own soft skin, so that he could feel the texture of the man one more time, tracing the smoothness of his chest as it turned to that narrow pathway of down, then the rough coarseness of the thick hair below, protecting that lovely, dizzying shaft that, even as Data had touched it, would have moved to greet him, risen up with love and longing and let him hold it, close to his skin, his face, his mouth, one final time… He gasped, almost feeling it as reality, even now.

No, that had not been his Captain. He had seen the shock in Jean-Luc's eyes as the realisation of what their relationship had been sank in. He had seen the fight to overcome the newness of the idea, the need to set aside old ways of thinking in the face of death, to allow his friend – for they obviously had been friends, though nothing more – a glimpse of that sharp joy before dying. And – had he dreamed it? He thought he had seen a response in Picard's eyes, as they drew apart after that last, penetrating kiss. And Picard had touched him – deeply, gently – in unlooked for ways, and willingly: were they so very different, then?

A tear rolled down the side of his face. What if, at the last, he had awakened a genuine desire in that other Picard? Oh, for the chance to meet him – to see him again – to fulfil that need! He nearly cried out, and felt his body leap up in its own impotent desire.

What was Q sending him back to? To this new Picard, who knew 'his' Data only as a friend? Would he, having done so much for a man he thought was dying, reject him now that he was alive again, as a reminder of memories he would rather forget?

He mentally shook himself, reorganising newly-invigorated neural pathways, and giving his freshly-active positronic net a virtual slap in the face. He had no idea where his current journey might end. But he could not help the old longing creeping back, like water seeping through a crack below a door: he wanted to be at Picard's side again, and he wanted to be at _that_ Picard's side – no other. Even if friendship was all that could ever be between them, he wanted to be with _him_.

He closed his eyes, knowing his thoughts were still wandering and confused, blanking out the spinning stars. What was that old Earth saying – the one he had never, until recently, understood? Ah yes, he remembered now. How ironic.

_It is__ not the despair that kills you. It is the hope._

* * *

"Not joining them?" Guinan's calm, rich voice sliced into Picard's thoughts as he sat alone in ten-forward, watching the crowd surrounding his newest officer. After they had recovered from the shock, and then the suspicion, of his sudden return, Starfleet had been keen to give him his own command, but Data had been adamant: he rejoined the _Enterprise_ or he didn't rejoin at all. A couple of huffy admirals had given him a hard time, but he had been calm and resolute, and they had finally accepted that if they wanted to retain his expertise they'd better do it on his terms. So here he was, self-demoted to Commander, surrounded by old friends, new colleagues and passing voyeurs.

At the heart of the group was Geordi, glowing with joy, and basking in the glory of being the best friend of the man everyone wanted to know. Picard had absented himself from Data's arrival on the ship, and Geordi had him all to himself until the madding crowd appeared, and then the pair had no peace. But the sight of Data's face, radiating a deep contentment that went beyond mere happiness, was enough for his Captain; he did not want to intrude, or spoil the memories of their few snatched hours before Data's death a universe away.

"Hmm?" he responded.

"I said," she replied in the rich, heavy voice that meant she would have the truth out of him, "not joining them?"

Picard turned away from the group, and concentrated on his drink. "I don't think they need a Captain there right now. Mr Data seems to be managing fine on his own."

"But he's not on his own," Giunan said quietly. "I can see Geordi, Hassan, Templeton, T'Pell – all old friends. I've watched dozens of them come and go today, but someone's always been missing."

"As I said, they don't need me," Picard said, a shade of irritation colouring his voice. "I don't do social gatherings, Guinan – you know that."

"Is that what this is?"

"All those people… There wouldn't – I couldn't say – I can talk to him later." He paused, honesty requiring him to find more words. "I think I'm almost afraid, Guinan. But he understands."

"I'm sure he does." The powerful woman was stern now. "I'm not thinking of him – or of you." Picard looked up, surprised. "I know the two of you will renew your friendship in your own good time, but what message are you giving them, sitting here?" She nodded at crewmen and officers scattered around the large, welcoming room: people new to the _Enterprise_, who had no understanding of the cord that tied their Captain to this newcomer as surely as ropes secure climbers, freeing them to fly and keeping them from falling. "He's been on board for two days now! What message are you sending others by avoiding him?"

Picard sighed: he was tired, wrung out like an old rag with more holes than cloth in it. He had spent days dissecting, examining, rejecting and finally accepting all that had happened, and had run the gamut of emotion from heady joy at the memory of seeing and holding Data, to deep misery at the knowledge that he would never see or hold him again.

The Captain was no fool: he knew that his ambivalence was not merely the result of Data's unexpected return; in their short time together, they had achieved a relationship of such intimacy and intensity that Picard no longer knew how he should approach him. He had poured himself without reserve or restraint into those few, brief moments and, now that Data's presence was permanent, he did not know what to do.

The nature of his actions weighed heavily on his conscience. At the time, he had been convinced of their appropriateness: they gave comfort to a dying man, and he had done nothing that Data had not sought. But now, with hot emotion replaced by chill analysis, he agonised over whether he'd had the right to respond as he had. How much, he wondered, had been for Data's benefit, and how much for his own? He was appalled: what if in fact he had somehow taken advantage, and in such a manner? It would be unforgivable.

Such thoughts would never have occurred to him save that, in spite of all the associated pain, he had also experienced pleasure. Acute, glorious, searing pleasure. If the comfort he had given Data had left him unaffected, he would never have imagined that he might have done wrong; but his self-awareness made him acknowledge in bitter self-accusation his fiercely physical reaction to that first and final kiss. Begun as a tentative gift to the dying, it had ended with Picard's own deep, hungry need. He could almost feel him, full and heavy in his hand… The mere thought of the contact made his stomach twist in desperate desire.

After days of intense agony he had become resigned to the fact that, in healing another's wound, he had dealt himself a blow from which he would not recover. He was in love with Commander Data, adrift on currents of lust and longing, and too far out of sight of land for any hope of rescue.

He knew why he did not approach the happy group across the room: he dare not. What if, even as he yearned for his love to be returned, Data rejected him? The pain would shred his heart. But of course, as Guinan had pointed out, that was thinking only of himself. His first responsibility was to his crew, and if his heart had to be broken, so be it. He stood, tugged at his tunic and, with a mouth dry with anticipation and dread, turned towards his fate.

* * *

_To be c__ontinued in Chapter 4_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I do not know. Do you think it would help?"

"Can't do any harm."

"Very well – thank you, Guinan. When I arrived –"

"Data, it's usual to ask a guest to sit down."

Data rose from his seat and moved towards his visitor, who stood in the doorway to his quarters with a not unamused expression on her face. "I apologise. As you have observed, I am somewhat distracted. Please, come in. Sit down."

"Care to introduce me?"

For a moment, Data did not understand, then he followed Guinan's gaze to the soft cover thrown across the bed: a cover currently in use by the second occupant of the room. "Ah, you have yet to meet Spot." He scooped up the latest feline to rejoice in that name – a striking seal-point Siamese who looked every bit as elegant asleep as awake – and offered her to Guinan to stroke. As Guinan did so, the animal raised its head and looked into her eyes, and Data could have sworn that they were communicating.

"She is so beautiful," Guinan said as she replaced Spot and sat down on a nearby chair. "Do you think that perhaps she deserves a more elaborate name than Spot?"

Data was slightly puzzled. "But all my cats are called Spot."

"I know, Data. That's my point."

"To call her anything other than Spot would break with tradition. She appears perfectly happy with the name."

Guinan smiled. "Then 'Spot' she will be. Now, Data – talk to me."

Faced with such an admonission, he was lost for coherent words. How could he explain what had happened without sharing memories that his new Captain might prefer kept private? And how could he explain how he felt without descending into self-pity? "I do not know where to begin," he said, a little helplessly.

"OK," Guinan said slowly. "Then I'll go first. Two weeks ago, Q transported Captain Picard to your universe, where you had survived and he had not. You were dying: he comforted you. Q was either so moved or so amused by the whole thing that he decided to let you die in your universe, then transport you to this one. And here you are."

"You do not approve."

"Of Q? I don't approve of anything he does. But he's done it, you're here – I'm glad to have you back. And I'm not the only one."

"I am pleased to be here," Data replied, "since the alternative is not to be anywhere. I have been made very welcome – your Data must have been held in high regard."

"He was. And so are you. You are our Data now – and you're right – you are much loved."

"But not – " Data stopped. _But not by Jean-Luc_, he wanted to say. Then he thought of Picard's gentle compassion as he lay dying, and the statement seemed churlish and unfeeling. " – as I would wish," he said in a low voice.

"What happened?"

"I – I would not wish my expectations to reflect adversely on the Captain. It is obvious they were different than his, and to assume that he made promises he did not fulfill would be unfair." He was painfully anxious that Guinan should not misunderstand him.

"Data," Guinan said softly, "I've known Jean-Luc Picard for longer than either of you have been alive. In the past and in the future. Nothing you say will reflect badly on him – or on you."

There was a long pause; so long that an ordinary human would have concluded that Data did not wish to discuss the matter further. But Guinan was no ordinary human, and she waited him out. Finally, from a place of deep emptiness and unnatural calm, Data spoke.

He spoke of his shock at seeing his dead friend again; his bitter disappointment and guilty relief at finding that this Picard was not the one he had known. He spoke of his fear, his loneliness – and of the comfort Picard had offered him in his dying hours. He spoke of his awakened need for this man, his Captain and not his Captain, and the joy that had leapt up in him when he thought he saw an answering passion in Picard's eyes. And he spoke of Q, who had forced him back into life out of the darkness, and turned that joy into a fierce, consuming hope until – until he had talked to this new Jean-Luc Picard and discovered that his actions had indeed sprung only from kindness, and not from love.

His voice faltered. It should not be so difficult, he thought, to cope with such disappointment: humans had to do it all the time. He himself had experienced it before: he thought of Tasha and Jenna, and others for whom he had cared from afar. But this was different: this was a consummated relationship which had been shattered past repair, and which he had dared, beyond reason, to hope might be restored. As he spoke, he began to realise how foolish he had been: hope is not the same as reality, and he had, in his emotion, confused the two. He could see things with clearer eyes now, and knew that he must crush any remaining desire. Guinan was right: talking did help.

"I apologise for expressing such irrationality," he concluded in a newly-firm voice. "In hoping for something, I unconsciously assumed it would definitely occur, forgetting that another person was involved who might have wishes different than mine. Discussing it with you has helped me clarify my error. It has not negated the pain, but at least now I understand its cause. Clearly, even after several years. I have not mastered the operation of my emotion chip, and that should be my next and urgent task. Thank you for listening."

"Hold on – I don't think we're quite done yet," Guinan said. "You've only told me half the story. What about after you came on board?"

"I quickly ascertained that the Captain had no wish to pursue a romantic relationship," he said, forcing himself to speak casually, as he must now learn to do. "I will not force him into such an association, however much I may desire it." He was rather proud of the evenness with which he spoke.

Guinan appeared less impressed, and repeated her question. "Why don't you tell me what happened between you, after you came on board?"

"I do not see the point."

"Humour me."

He looked at her steady expression, and realised that she would get her way in the end. "Very well…"

* * *

Standing in Engineering, discussing refinements to the displays relating to the Jeffries tubes, Data's performance was as efficient and impeccable as ever, but the physical closeness of Jean-Luc Picard was becoming more than he was able to process without deactivating – or at least dampening – a significant proportion of his sensory input. His attention was focused on improving the communication between man and machine, but it wasn't the _Enterprise_ and her crew that were uppermost in his thoughts. When Picard had to repeat a question, he knew something had to be done.

Picard obviously thought so too: when their technical discussion was over he turned away from Geordi, who was beginning to put the agreed amendments into effect, and spoke in a low voice. "Mr Data, we need to have a talk."

"Yes, sir."

"My ready room." And Picard strode out of the room without a backward glance.

Data followed, feeling rather like a schoolboy about to be given a dressing down by his headmaster: Will Riker had told him lurid stories of such events both in real life and old novels, but he had never realised the depths of apprehension those unfortunate children must have plumbed until now. One of the paradoxes of humanity was rapidly becoming clear to him: that the coming to fruition of a longed-for event may be far from pleasant.

Watching his Captain walking three steps in front of him – he was careful to maintain the exact distance, since this seemed to be what Picard required – Data wished with all his artificial heart's impulses that the other man would turn round, wait for him – just give him a sign. He found himself remembering again the look of infinite compassion in Picard's eyes as he had appeared from behind that door a lifetime ago, and wondered where that compassion had been hiding since he came on board.

Apart from an hour or so in ten forward, he had hardly seen Picard in the two weeks since his 'return'. Ostensibly, the Captain had been very busy – there were several new stellar phenomena which needed his attention, together with a spate of long-range diplomatic wrangling, and the preparations for a private archaeological trip while the _Enterprise_ finished some routine mapping in a local star system – but none of that would have got in his way had he been as desperate to see Data as Data was to see him. Every morning, he had risen from his unnecessary sleep with renewed hope that today might be the day when the Captain would seek him out; and every night he lay down again unsought, with no-one but his new cat for company. She was indeed a blessing, having a seemingly empathic sense that he was bitterly unhappy, and showering him with feline love in abundance.

Perhaps, Data thought wryly, she just liked the supplements he selected for her.

He had anticipated something very different. That spark in Picard's face – he had surely not imagined that? And if there was a spark, surely he could fan it until it became a strong, leaping flame? Perhaps, he thought, Picard was now ready to face what must be a difficult adjustment in their relationship. His step grew lighter as he thought of the gentleness and passion with which he would lead his new lover into the beautiful, astonishing world they would share. He must give him time – he knew that – and of course the opportunity to refuse, but that could hardly be needed. He and Picard would talk now, and later…

"Sir, that is not the way to the bridge."

"No. I think it more appropriate that we speak in your quarters."

"Very well, sir." Data kept his voice neutral, but his emotion chip worked hard to transmit to his mental and physical processors all the sensations of joy. Even Spot sensed a change in the air, taking herself off to a hidden nook or cranny and leaving her master free for human, rather than feline, desire.

"Please, sit down." As if in his own room, Picard indicated a chair and himself sat in another, moving it beyond touching distance. Later, Data realised that the repositioning of the furniture had been deliberate. Now, he was just disappointed: he longed to feel Picard's skin under his fingertips again.

"How are you, Mr Data?"

Data recognised that Picard was probably feeling awkward, and accepted the formal greeting at face value.

"I am well, thank you, sir. I believe I have settled onto this _Enterprise_ satisfactorily."

"Good – good." Picard paused, and Data took the plunge.

"Captain, may I infer from the private nature of this meeting that you wish to discuss what happened aboard my _Enterprise_?"

Picard cleared his throat. "Yes – I think we need to, don't you? To clear the air – see where we go from here?"

Data knew exactly where he wanted to go, but knew that humans were not as direct as machines, and sometimes needed to find their way by obscure and winding paths. "I am grateful for your kindness, Captain," he began. "More than grateful." He felt the beginnings of a physical response, and quickly suppressed it. "You brought me a great deal of happiness." He did not meet Picard's eye: suddenly shy at the feelings he was struggling to express, he stared at the floor and subconsciously began to count the threads of carpet in several individual square inches near his feet.

"I did?" Picard whispered. Data heard the sound of swallowing. "I'm pleased, if that was the case." _If that was the case?_ thought Data. Hadn't his own reactions been proof enough of what Picard had done for him? "But you must remember, Data – you were dying. You can't really be held responsible… I mean – death – it's a one-way journey. You don't expect to come back from it."

"Sir?"

"We all do things – might do things – that we would perhaps – we might behave differently if we thought…" Data watched in growing apprehension as Picard sought for words. "What I mean is – I don't hold you to what happened. I don't need it to mean anything if you… you were dying, not fully capable of taking decisions. I hope it was what you wanted, but I don't want you to think that I did it for any other reason… That you owe me anything."

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Data processed the penultimate statement a hundred times – _I don't want you to think that I did it for any other reason_ – while expanding his counting of carpet threads to a full square yard.

His emotion circuits – fine-tuned from years of living among a thousand humans and loving one with his whole being – at first reacted in a completely human way, rejecting the statement out of hand. He must have incorrectly processed the auditory input. He checked it – no, it was accurate. He must have misheard – humans did so, and why not he? He accessed the rolling memory files that automatically accumulated as he functioned – no, those were indeed the words that Picard had used. Their meaning, then – they must have another meaning than the one he attributed to them. But no – what other meaning could there be? Frantically, he cast around for some other interpretation of what he had heard, and could find none. He saw his grand dreams of a wonderful new life of happiness with this man begin to crumble, and desperately sought to shore them up.

"I believe that I do owe you something, Captain," he said, still not meeting the other's gaze. "Had those minutes indeed been my final ones, I would as I ceased to function have been very – " he wanted to say 'happy', but for some reason could not " – content. And it may be your compassion for me that persuaded Q to give me back my life. I believe I have much to thank you for. Without your actions, I would not be here, with you – your crew."

"It was a privilege. And I am grateful for your return, Data – more grateful than I can say."

Data's stomach tightened. But he had to make sure; he had to give Picard the opportunity to refuse him. From what he had said, he seemed uncertain of the significance of what had passed between them, and Data had no intention of presuming upon the man who had given him so much, both in that universe and this. So he put away his thick, breathless desire, and spoke as if nothing mattered to him less than what he was about to say.

"I understand your embarrassment, Captain. It was an unusual situation, and one in which you showed unexpected and unlooked-for kindness. As a gesture to a dying man it was altruistically selfless, since it cannot have been easy for you to overcome the nature of the friendship with your own Data and conform to the different parameters I was accustomed to. If I in any way pressured you into acting as you did not wish, then I must apologise. As you have said, I was – not myself. I cannot deny that I was comforted by you, nor that my feelings for Captain Picard are as strong as ever, but I must stress that nothing you did need affect our relationship in this universe, or change the nature of our friendship, or be mentioned again."

He stopped, strained almost beyond endurance by the necessity of not saying what he meant. He had to give Picard a way out, that was only fair – but surely he could not have been clearer in what he had said? He had as good as told him he was in love with him – with him, the man sitting before him right now, solid and glorious and flesh and blood. It took all his considerable self-control not to reach out and curl up in his arms – he ached to feel those arms around him again. To feel the touch of those soft, strong lips, to experience those hands stroking him into alertness… His brain was thick with longing. Why did human custom forbid him from moving across the room right now? Perhaps he would – perhaps he should – oh, how he wanted to! But he had observed, and more than once, that for a society which considered itself sexually enlightened, this was still a minefield of behavioural expectations, and coming out and saying what you wanted was simply not done. He held his breath – or would have done, had he breathed – and waited for Picard's answer.

It fell like an executioner's axe. "Of course." There was a catch in Picard's voice. "You can see why we needed to have this discussion – I'm glad we did so before misunderstandings caused any problems. I – I shall always be grateful for the opportunity of – I mean I don't think it's matter of regret – you're right, it's probably best that we don't speak of it again. I hope, Mr Data, that now it's behind us, we can be friends?"

As he listened, and gradually realised what Picard was saying, Data's heart – for, within his circuitry and processors, his wires and positronic connections, he possessed as much of a heart as anyone – broke. His grandiose hopes and dreams, built so high and shining on a few tenuous moments of beautiful intimacy, cracked and crashed to the ground, turning from riots of colour and light into nothing but the greyness of dust and ashes. He could taste the despair, the years of emptiness stretching out ahead, which should have been filled with love and joy, and now promised only tears and loneliness. If he could have cried out, he would have; but that would have to wait until he was alone. He could not afford – he would not allow – Picard to see the devastation wrought by his dismissive words. If he had any hope of salvaging this friendship – and how much more precious that friendship would be now, replacing as it did something so much greater, so much deeper! – he must not betray how he felt. He must, with all the life experience and subtle circuitry at his disposal, control his anguish. He stilled the trembling and the tears that had begun as an automatically-generated response from his emotion chip, and replied.

"I understand, Captain. I would have it no other way. I have always been privileged to consider myself your friend, and hope to continue doing so."

Picard stood up abruptly, and turned toward the door. "Excellent! Thank you, Mr Data, for your indulgence." And then, without another word, he was gone; Data would like to have seen his face as he went, but had not dared to raise his eyes for fear that Picard would read the pain that filled them like glass grinding into skin, and force himself into a relationship he so clearly did not want.

_I don't want you to think that I did it for any other reason._

There were one hundred twenty nine thousand, six hundred threads per square yard of carpet.

* * *

Guinan was silent for several minutes after Data had finished, and he used the time to regain his outward equanimity. Achieving an inward balance, he knew, would be a less easy task.

"So you gave up?" Guinan finally said.

"He did not want me."

"So you gave up."

"I love him too much to do otherwise," Data whispered. "Do you not understand?"

"I understand that men are fools!" Guinan retorted, but her gentle voice belied her harsh words. She paused as Data's surprise rendered him speechless for a moment, then stood. "No promises, Mr Data, but I wouldn't despair just yet if I were you."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say." And she was gone.

After a while, Data fed Spot, deactivated his emotion chip and his dream-enabling program, and lay down. Alerting his internal chronometer to his required waking time, he closed down his conscious functions. For a few hours, at least, he could rest without pain.

* * *

_To be continued in Chapter 5_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Will you look at that, Mr Data!" Picard stared in raw amazement as the _Enterprise_ runabout – pressed into service as a more commodious living space than a mere shuttle – drew near to the fierce little moon that was the site of his prospective archaeological dig. "They said it had huge weather systems – my God, look at that sandstorm! How large is it, to be visible from here?"

Data checked his instrument panel. "I believe it is at least five hundred miles in diameter, sir." He paused. "Is its current location or predicted path near where you were planning your investigation? If so, perhaps we should consider an alternative site."

"It's all right. The storms are largely confined to the northern hemisphere – we're going to land just – there – down near the southern pole."

"How largely?" The scepticism in Data's voice indicated that he was not convinced.

"Where's your sense of adventure, man? These ruins are constantly being hidden and exposed because of the sandstorms; they've uncovered some fantastic artefacts only within the last twenty years." He rubbed his hands together. "Maybe we'll find something unique –get our names in the textbooks!"

"That is unlikely, sir."

Picard sighed. He was trying his hardest to keep the conversation light and frothy, but Data wasn't making it easy. His earnest study of the moon's archaeological history; his questions on esoteric points of provenance; most of all, his physical presence in this small, intimate space, were testing Picard's nerves to their limits. It was a bittersweet experience: to have Data to himself for three days made his head spin like cheap wine; but to be trapped with the man he loved and unable to show that love set his teeth on edge. It was going to be a tense few days.

When Guinan had suggested that Data accompany him on his brief vacation, his first reaction had been mixed. It was not long since one of the worst conversations of his life, when Data had flatly told him that he was still in love with his former Captain, and let him understand that, while their friendship was consumingly important to him, friendship was all it was. Picard had barely made it out of the room without crying.

Since then, he had maintained a desperate equanimity, terrified that Data would guess how he really felt. He knew now that he could never have Data's love, but he needed his respect, his company, his friendship, as much as he needed water to drink and air to breathe. He had lost them once, five years ago, and he would not risk losing them again. He doubted his ability to maintain the façade convincingly for three days, but Guinan had been insistent, pointing out that both were fragile from their recent losses, vulnerable from the sudden renewing of their relationship, and in need of some time away from the everyday pressures of the _Enterprise_ to –as she put it – _get yourselves sorted out, Picard!_

Sitting here now, watching the android's long, delicate fingers operate the runabout's controls, Picard was torn between elation and misery. He found himself mesmerised by the flowing movements of hands older – more than five years older, he thought – than when he had last seen them, wanting to stroke the veins where they stood out beneath the skin. But when he had last seen those hands, they had not belonged to the man he loved. How, he wondered helplessly, had that happened? Had it always been there, waiting like a guest or a curse, lacking only a final small act to bring it to fruition – an act which, in this universe, had never come about? The ease and speed with which he had come to view Data as more precious than life itself would suggest so. He shivered at the delicious thought, then suppressed both the movement and the feeling as best he could: their partnership was clearly meant only for other universes, and he had better get used to the idea.

He wondered what the spark had been.

* * *

They landed the runabout in a wooded clearing about a kilometre from his chosen site. Most of the landmass was formed of compacted sandstone in subtle shades of blue and gold, presumably deposited by primeval storms of the kind they'd seen from space. A little nagging feeling at the back of his mind suggested they should be careful about the storms, but he dismissed it as needless fretting: it was a century since one of the monsters had come this far south, and the likelihood of them being caught was so small as to be not worth calculating.

Eager to get started – and eager too, if he had been honest with himself, to be alone – Picard left Data to secure the craft, and set off down one of the tree-lined tracks, shovel, brush and archaeological paraphernalia slung in a bag over his shoulder. He wore strong mountain boots, loose but close-woven pants and a sturdy, almost rustic shirt. Digging was not a task for fine clothes, and he was anyway pleased to escape from the unnatural confines of his uniform which, despite Starfleet's continuous efforts, never quite fitted as it should.

Once at his objective, he gazed around curiously, and was delighted to see that no-one seemed to have been here for a while. He began at a particularly promising looking bump, and deliberately immersed himself in the hard work of digging, determined to escape his unhappiness, at least temporarily. Soon he was absorbed in his task, and lost all track of time.

* * *

Having completed his checks and arranged their rendezvous with the _Enterprise_, Data found himself at something of a loose end. The Captain had seemed anxious to leave, and although he was saddened by his friend's desire to be elsewhere, he understood and respected it. This close proximity to someone who was doing everything possible to make it clear he wanted friendship and nothing more was upsetting in the extreme, though he would never show that he felt distressed: he recognised a stab of pride, and grimaced. Emulating humans certainly had its down side.

He sat for a while, thinking about his companion, about those moments when he had been irrationally happy, and the moments since when he had not. He relived the soft gentleness of his Captain's hand on his face, the delicate urgency of his Captain's kiss on his lips, and found that he had wasted an hour before he had even noticed. Wool-gathering – another human trait that it might be better not to adopt, though it was, he had to admit, a pleasant if unproductive way to pass the time.

His hand moved to his chest: perhaps he should check that the Captain had reached the site safely? It hovered over the comm badge: he yearned to hear Picard's voice, to feel that their worlds were still intersecting. Then he reasserted his common sense. It was less than two hours since Picard had left: if he had wanted to contact Data he would have done so and, if this Picard was anything like his own, he would welcome Data's intrusion into his current activity as much as Data would welcome a troupe of Orion slave girls into his quarters. He wished he could have gone with him – perhaps he should have offered – but he had never been allowed to before, and why should this universe be any different?

He had to admit, however, that this Picard _was_ different, in so many ways: he was gentler – his old Captain would have said 'weaker' – and more softly-spoken. This Picard seemed less decisive, but he suspected that was just an impression: he had as much authority, and maybe more, partly because of his very quietness. His thoughts drifted – as they inevitably did – to the touch of the man, the soft, decisive feel of him, and when he felt his stomach tighten and his clothing grow tight around his hard, physical response to the thought, he did not suppress it. Picard would not be back for hours, and he surely had time – and reason – for a little self indulgence.

Later, in a somewhat calmer but still strangely heightened state of mind, he realised that he had to do something until the Captain returned other than daydream. He adjusted his clothing, and looked around for useful occupations.

He made up Picard's bed, imagining the skin that would lie against it later that night, and taking care that it should be soft and comfortable. He then boldly made up his own next to it. He needed neither rest nor sleep, but the thought of being so close was too tempting to resist, and if in the back of his mind a speculative file hypothesised that such nearness might make the Captain more receptive, who could blame it?

He returned to the flight deck, and watched the storm's progress on the runabout's scanners. As far as he could project, its path took it to the north of their current position, but his study of this moon had shown that its winds could veer unexpectedly, and he knew they must be prepared for any sudden change. And Jean-Luc was out there, alone.

He stopped. For the first time in this universe, he had spontaneously thought of his new Captain by his given name. The fact troubled him: it surely indicated that his old Captain was finally being supplanted. He was not surprised – this Captain was everything his other Picard had been, and more – but he felt sharply the disloyalty inherent in such a shift of affections. Had his old Captain not given him years of friendship and love? Had he not shown him how to become more human, and more acceptable in human eyes? Had he not shown him physical and mental pleasures he could hardly imagine sharing with anyone else?

And yet he _had_ shared them: from the moment this Picard had touched him, he had been no longer unique to his old Captain, and yet he had welcomed – even sought – the contact. He had been well aware that the two men were different: he had been confused, but not bewildered. Was that the moment of betrayal? Or was that when he realised that his yearning was exclusively for this Picard – this gentle, compassionate man who treated him…

He shied away from a thought that had been hovering at the edge of his mind ever since he had arrived here and been able to compare the two men's behaviour. It made him feel acutely uncomfortable, and he had therefore avoided confronting it. To do so seemed to invite an obvious conclusion, and it was a conclusion that seemed to negate all the years he had spent at his old Captain's side. But it could no longer be ignored: the difference was too marked. This Picard _did_ treat him differently: he treated him as an equal, as someone Picard was privileged to know, and not merely as very clever but not quite human. He hated himself for thinking this way – hated himself for seeing his old Captain with such clear eyes – but it was inevitable. There – back in the old life – he had been loved; here, he was respected, and he knew the value of the latter.

Oh, if this Picard, who respected and valued him so highly, could also love him, what a love that would be! He shivered at the thought.

He was surprised, and somewhat exasperated, at the realisation that he had not yet given up on Picard. How clear could the man have been? And yet, that hope – _the hope that kills you_, he remembered – would not die. He sighed. He had been right when he told Guinan he had yet to master his emotion chip. It could be irritatingly wayward at times.

* * *

"That wind's – getting stronger!" Picard panted between the words as he struggled to haul a large, wrapped object into the runabout. As he paused, Data moved to help, lifting the thing with ease and placing it carefully on the table within their living space. Picard let his tired shoulders drop gratefully. "Thank you, Mr Data. After almost a kilometre, it was certainly getting heavy." He was dirty and dishevelled, but deeply satisfied: the day had been particularly productive, and the rising wind had exposed nearly twenty fine ceramics, two of the best of which now sat, carefully cocooned in cushioning fabric, before him.

"I have been careful not to damage it, sir."

Picard looked at him in surprise, but could think of no appropriate answer. Why on earth would Data imagine he'd be worried about him damaging it? "I'm going to change," he said. "I feel disgusting."

The runabout's shower was not quite on a par with those on the _Enterprise_: a strange, hand-held device, its sonic waves got him clean, but only about a quarter at a time. Consequently it was nearly half an hour before he stepped back into the now rather cramped living area, where the first thing he noticed were the beds Data had made up. And how close they were. _My God,_ he thought, feeling suddenly warm, _I'll be able to reach out and touch him._

He looked across the room to where Data sat at the table, for all the world as if he were guarding hidden treasure. He had changed, Picard noticed, and wore a loose, flowing shirt of pale green, and black pants that stretched over his thighs as he sat, but probably – Picard imagined – moved softly when he walked, clinging to his curves and emphasising his…

He coughed, and swore that he saw Data jump. He must have been in a deep reverie not to have heard him enter. He had to stop Data thinking anything was wrong: had to make him relax. He shook his head in irritation: why did every thought conjure an unwelcome image? He smiled grimly to himself. No, not unwelcome – he would have welcomed that image with open arms and open heart, had he been allowed – just unavailable.

"Here," he said, taking the package from the android's hands and balancing it carefully between them. "Help me unwrap them – there are two here, two of the finest ceramics I've ever seen from this civilisation. That's it – just hold it there… That's the first one – look at it, Data! It's fantastic – and there's the second. Have you ever seen anything like them?"

He watched as Data surveyed his finds, and vaguely wondered why he didn't pick them up. He himself could hardly resist touching them – they cried out to be handled and caressed. Although still caked in sandy mud, their beauty was plain: reminiscent of ancient Greek amphora from Earth, they stood some twenty inches high, and were covered in decoration of the most exquisite delicacy. Inside, giving the lie to archaeologists' theories that they might have been used for storage, the clay had been stretched hair-thin into a filigree of glass-like structures that criss-crossed the open space within. They looked as if a breath could shatter them.

"One for me, one for you!" Picard wanted to involve Data in this activity that was so important to him, and knew the amount of research his companion had done, so he was shocked when his flippant comment resulted in Data almost jumping away from the table like the proverbial scalded cat. "Data? Is there a problem?" Data seemed to be struggling for words, and Picard was completely lost. What the hell was going on?

Eventually, Data replied. "I do not think so, sir. They are far too delicate – far too beautiful – for me to touch. I know how you must value them, and if I should break anything…" He shook his head, presumably feeling the gesture finished the sentence more eloquently than any words.

Picard stared at him. "Mr Data, I have seen you stroke a moth's wings and let it go unharmed. Why ever do you imagine I wouldn't trust you with one of these?"

"I – I broke an artefact once. It was unique. Captain Picard – " Data's voice dropped to a whisper, and Picard heard the distress in it " – was not pleased. He did not permit me to help again."

Picard fought to hide his astonishment: Data's relationship with his dead lover was nothing to do with him, but to have reacted in such an extreme fashion… It had obviously scarred Data, whose apprehension, even after all these years, was almost visible. He reached across the table and laid his hand on Data's arm in a gesture of sympathy. It was not until he had made contact with the soft material of the other's shirt that he realised what he had done, and how it mirrored his action back in Data's own universe, but he could already feel the warmth of the nearly-living flesh beneath the cloth, and couldn't bear to let go.

As the moment stretched out into silence, he thought he saw Data's free hand move: was he going to put his hand over Picard's? Surely he knew Picard would interpret such an action only one way – surely – _oh Data, please, please…_

_Please…_

The hand dropped back, and Picard's heart dropped with it. He casually broke the contact, and gave the ceramics on the table his full, focussed and undivided attention. "I'm sure you won't damage anything," he said slightly gruffly. "Here – let me show you."

He busied himself with laying out instruments on the table: fine brushes, finer needle-like implements, soft sponges, distilled water and felt cloths. As Data watched, he demonstrated how to use each in turn to clean the claggy mud from the delicate carvings, using finer and finer instruments as the decoration gradually revealed itself from beneath its sandy shroud. To him, the sequence was obvious: glancing up, he saw the puzzlement on Data's face, and with a flash of inspiration realised that the android had so far distanced himself from such activities, in order not to be further hurt, that he had erected a barrier which words alone could not break down.

He rose, and moved to the other side of the table. "Here," he repeated, "this is what you do."

Standing almost next to him, Picard leaned over awkwardly, trying not to touch the android but not entirely succeeding. Bending down, he placed his hand gently over Data's and, cradling the long, pale fingers in his own, made one hand of their two, showing him how to hold each strange instrument, how to stroke the clay in just the way to raise the muddy dirt, how to manipulate the delicate implements and tease the glory from the grime, how to angle the almost invisible brushes so that the gossamer-like threads were revealed in all their light-catching beauty.

All the while, Picard carefully controlled his breathing, which threatened to descend into something altogether more visceral every second. He imagined how it would feel to fasten his mouth on Data's neck and caress the naked skin there. Although his chest and stomach were not quite touching the android's back, he was so close that he could feel the heat beating between them, and the tiniest movement on his part would seal the space that separated them: with one hand on Data's chair supporting his weight, and the other guiding Data's hand as if it were his own, they could hardly be closer without deliberate intent. Briefly, Picard wondered if he really had any right to be doing this, touching him in this fashion: he was glad that, below the waist, he was hidden from scrutiny.

"Do you see?" He was surprised that his voice was only a whisper.

There was a pause. "Not exactly, sir," Data slowly replied. "Please show me again."

As he did so, Picard found himself caressing the pale hand beneath his own as much as the pottery. He knew he must be betraying himself, but he could not stop. His body was on fire, hard and hungry and desperate to grasp this beautiful, vulnerable man and own him, completely, and it took all his self-control not to spin Data's chair round and fling himself into the android's arms: to remove his hand was quite beyond him. He breathed in Data's slightly astringent scent, and as his face almost touched them, noticed how each strand of shining silver hair caught the light, reflecting rainbows. He yearned with all his heart for Data to turn, look up, and surrender, and suddenly felt sick with longing. Oh God, he would only need to move an inch…

Frantic and dizzy with lust, the urgent throb of desire becoming too painful to bear, Picard made a final colossal effort, and stood back from the man he loved beyond sanity and reason. At least his loose clothing had some practical use.

"I think you've got it," he muttered and, without looking back, made his escape to the bathroom. Alone and safe from scrutiny, he leaned his head against the cool exterior wall and listened to the wind as it moaned around the runabout, mirroring his desperate torment. He wished he could howl as well. He had to control himself, he knew.

He had to control himself…

* * *

_To be continued in Chapter 6_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Data lay neatly supine in the dark, his positronic brain processing the day's events, his inhuman eyes watching the heat patterns made by Picard as he slept. He could see his Captain like a rainbow, red and yellow and blue and green, losing and retaining heat, an almost-abstract collage of shifting shape and colour. He was aware of his even breathing and, if he increased the sensitivity of his aural receptors, he could hear the blood moving through the other man's veins, hear the life itself as it rushed ceaselessly through the other's body. To be so uniquely close was a strange comfort, but Data was curious – and sad – to discover that it was also very lonely.

Quietly reviewing what had happened between them during the past twenty-four hours, he found himself faced with some startling facts. He backtracked to _that_ conversation, shying away from it instinctively, but knowing that he had to face it if he was ever to twist the sting out of its tail. After a moment, he realised he had to go back to the beginning: to their first encounter aboard his _Enterprise_. Only in the context of events there would later actions make sense. If, he thought, human actions ever did. At least he had an advantage over most humans: he could, partially or completely, deactivate his emotion chip and analyse problems dispassionately.

This particular problem was, he realised as he examined the information at his disposal, that much of the data to be processed was simply inconsistent. He was used to dealing with normal human contradictions, some of which his companions would not even have noticed, but these were beyond normal: these appeared to be the result of deliberate deception. For the purposes of this exercise, he dismissed that notion: his Captain would not, under normal circumstances, deceive him. Not that these were normal circumstances… But, assuming that there was one, what was the explanation for Picard's erratic behaviour?

To have kissed him as he had, and then rejected him out of hand; to have avoided him for days and then asked him here; to have almost run away from him when they arrived and then made such a point of touching him – although he had not reacted, Data had been acutely aware of every cell in the Captain's body as it hovered so near his own – and afterwards bolted from the room and virtually ignored him for the rest of the evening: these were not the actions of rationality. What could cause someone to behave in such a way – someone who was normally so organised and clear-thinking?

He realised that he was making a large assumption: that there was a hidden consistency behind the behaviour, when in fact there might be none. But he had to start somewhere, and to accept even as a hypothesis that his Captain was genuinely irrational was simply not appropriate. He smiled to himself, recognising the flaw in his own reasoning, and consciously set it aside.

His eyes settled on the moving pattern next to him. Its colours swirled and merged: he made a mental note of their particular hues and relationships, and promised himself that, whatever the outcome of these few intense days, he would paint them. He realised that he had not painted for a very long time: with a shock, he calculated that he had painted nothing since his Captain's death. This impulse to create was the first he had had since that life-changing day aboard the _Scimitar_, and the fact surprised him. Did he need the physical proximity of the man he loved in order to paint? Did that make Picard his muse? His eyebrows twitched involuntarily: the thought would certainly entertain his Captain. If their relationship was ever repaired enough for him to share it. Oh, he missed Jean-Luc… Not only his old Jean-Luc – who had become a beautiful memory now – but this solid, flesh and bone Jean-Luc, lying two feet away in all his human openness and vulnerability, and what their relationship could have been. How strange, he thought, to miss something he had never had.

So, back to his current task: if there was an explanation for Picard's strange behaviour, what could it be? What caused human beings to behave apparently without reason? Deep emotions, he knew – fear, hatred – he felt he could dismiss those as probable causes. He must generalise more: what motives might be responsible? Deception was one, as he had already surmised – uncertainty was another. Unhappiness often caused erratic behaviour, as humans struggled to accept inevitable fate and failure, as did reacting to incomplete, shifting information. Which – if any – of these might apply to Picard?

He analysed each, and concluded that none provided a full explanation, but he would not let go of the conviction that there must one. He owed it to his Captain to find it.

What could cause Picard to act as he had? Something made a connection in his neural net, and he let it run, allowing it to develop, to fan out into other neurons so that they, too, could make connections. Picard's actions – that was the word – Picard's acting! Not behaviour, not motivation, but _acting_. Picard was playing a part, a part he did not believe in, and that split between the inner and the outer man could surely lead to apparently irrational behaviour… Like a lantern swinging in the dark, whose illumination comes and goes without apparent reason, only when the observer hears the wind and sees the bushes obscuring the light does he understand that erratic blinking and winking – only then does it make sense.

Excited, he applied his new hypothesis to Picard's actions of the past few weeks: if he was feeling one way and acting another, it would certainly explain his recent behaviour. Fighting not Data, but himself – and not doing it very well, from what Data could see. So what was it Picard was fighting? What might Data dare hope to imagine had been going on in Picard's head?

If the point of conflict was Data – and it certainly seemed to be – then it must be connected with their relationship, now and in both past universes. To take the simplest hypotheses first, either Picard disliked him and felt obliged to pretend an affection he did not feel, or – and Data felt his positronic firing rate almost triple as he thought of it – he loved him and felt obliged to pretend otherwise. The world shifted slightly and deliciously sideways. Picard loved him. Perhaps. Perhaps…

But why then would he behave as he had? Data struggled once again to think through the possibilities. If Picard loved him but did not want to admit to the feeling – why would that be? Surely not the fact that Data was male? Picard had never demonstrated any such prejudice towards any of his crew, and he had certainly shown none aboard Data's _Enterprise_. If it was that, then Data was confident of his ability to win his Captain over, though he felt a tiny runnel of disappointment at Picard's smallness of mind. Maybe there was another explanation: one better fitted to the man Data knew.

Why would Picard not wish to admit that he loved Data, even to Data himself? What could possibly make him behave in such a fashion?

Looking back on the process of analysis, Data was chagrined that it had taken him so long to reach the truth: once it had presented itself, it was so obvious that he could not imagine how he could have missed it. He almost laughed. Was he not behaving in exactly the same way himself? Had he not justified his behaviour – behaviour identical to that of Picard – while puzzling over his Captain's?

For someone with such powerful processing capacity, he thought, he had been astonishingly obtuse. Picard thought Data did not want him; Data thought Picard did not want him; and, like fighters a ring, they had been circling one another, both acting on incorrect input and longing for that input to change. He thought of Guinan's words: _Men are such fools_. He grimaced. We are indeed, he thought. We are indeed.

But he felt such elation at solving the problem that he was content to be called a fool for all eternity. Interestingly, he noticed that he had not had to deactivate his emotion chip at all, and was surprised. The distraction of feeling may well have compromised his processing abilities, but he suspected that the ability to empathise had also actively guided him to his conclusions. Yet again, he had been shown a facet of himself he had not been aware of: it was fortunate that he and humility were old friends.

Peace rushed through him, light and bright and sparkling, along with a deep, machine-based satisfaction that he had solved the mystery at last. He almost woke Picard at that very moment, but recognised that his friend would, like any human, need more time than an android to process all this information: it was, after all, only seventy-three seconds since he had begun his deliberations. He would have to tell him carefully, open his mind gently to a future of ecstasy. But when he did tell him – when they looked each other in the eyes for the first time as lovers… He watched Picard's gently-moving eyelids and imagined kissing them.

All he had to do was wait for an opportunity to lead his Captain out of the shadows and into the sunshine. Then he would take the chance that would change everything, and make them both happy.

* * *

Picard thought there had never been such a storm. The wind whipped and snapped around the runabout like vengeance, and handfuls of sand tore at the windows with ceaseless viciousness. There was no chance of seeing the sky, let alone judging its colour: the air was thick with tiny, malicious particles that would strip the flesh off a man in minutes, and he found himself grateful that the vehicle had been built to withstand the hostility of space. With the lights dimmed as they conserved energy, and the intermittent rattle of the onslaught outside, the little moon now seemed a very inhospitable place indeed.

He regretted the loss of a day's digging: tomorrow they were scheduled to return to the _Enterprise_, and he would have to leave his precious site to someone else's questing hands. Not that the place would be recognisable after this. He felt a pang: this was likely, with his luck, to be just the storm to expose that elusive temple he had read so much about. And now he would never get to see it…

He turned back to the voluptuously-shaped amphora he was painstakingly cleaning. Its wild beauty stunned him, with its variety of textures, extraordinary colours and patterns: he caught sight of a decoration near the rim, and the glimpse of those unique fingerprints from a loving, long-dead hand, brought tears to his eyes. Roughly, he wiped them away, not wanting Data to see them. He had no wish to indulge in anything emotional with Data right now: the emotion that coloured his whole life was too near the surface for that.

He was, of course, too late: nothing escaped Data's notice. When the android quietly offered him a tissue to wipe his eyes, he pushed it aside, shaking his head, but he touched Data's hand as he did so, and the contact thrilled through him like fire.

What Data did next was totally unexpected. Clearly finding his Captain's wet face unacceptable, he reached over the table and gently moved his fingers across Picard's cheek, sweeping up the tears as he did so. Picard felt the gentle warmth of the touch, the delicacy and tenderness behind it, and his mind sprang back to that other moment when he had performed a like service for his friend. A small whimper escaped him: the pain was almost unbearable.

"Data, please – "

"You cannot restore the artefact if you cannot see," Data pointed out.

"Don't, please – " He gulped a little, longing for the physical contact that he must pretend to reject. " – touch me," he finished in a whisper. He was so confused, so wretched, so alone…

"Captain," Data said, with a firmness in his voice that told Picard that his words were the result of a previously long and intense thought process. "I believe that we need to talk."

He swallowed and shook his head. "No…"

"Yes, sir. Our previous conversation regarding the events aboard my _Enterprise_ was intended to clear the air. I do not believe it has done so. I am constantly aware of – something that stands between us. I – it may appear inappropriate of me to raise the matter, but I value our friendship sufficiently highly to risk your irritation. I believe we still have matters to discuss."

Still unsteady with emotion, Picard took a deep breath and consciously relaxed his chest muscles, regaining his self-control. He carefully laid down his brush, and focussed on his companion. The last thing he wanted was a repetition of that conversation which had destroyed all his fresh, green hopes so viciously and so very thoroughly. He didn't know if he could bear another disappointment: the scar tissue over his heart's wound was still thin and liable to tear under pressure.

He knew he had not been controlling his own actions as well as he should – he knew he had succumbed to the temptation to stand closer to Data than necessary, that he had touched his hand when such contact had been entirely avoidable, that he had watched him through lowered lids when he should have been working, just to soak up the beauty of the man. If Data was going to set him right, he certainly deserved it. But he had no doubt that, whatever he intended to say, the android would be gentle.

He put away the stab of pain that thought engendered, and replied in a flat, emotionless voice. "You may be right, Mr Data." He rose and walked to the replicator, still functioning despite the power reduction. "Tea, Earl Grey, hot. Twice." Carrying the tea to the table, he sat down next to Data – away from the artefacts, it was the only place to have a conversation, he told himself – and placed the drink in front of him, keeping hold of his own cup. It gave him something to do with his hands.

The silence stretched between them, taut and dangerous. Picard knew he should say something, but his mind was blank. In the heat of activity, he could cope with this – Data's nearness, his earnest intensity – but now, deprived of anything to do, he was lost. "Data – "

"Captain – "

They had spoken together, and Picard fervently wished himself elsewhere. "Mr Data. After you." The tension tasted like stiff, white cloth in his mouth.

"I was going to suggest that we set aside convention and be totally honest with each other." Picard's eyebrows would have disappeared into his hair, if he'd had any. "There may be painful things to be said, sir – awkward things – but my feelings for you…" he trailed off in a most unData-like way.

_My feelings for you._ Picard felt his heart flip in his chest, and found a small moment to marvel at how human the artificial organ felt. Was Data on the verge of expressing something – something he hardly dared hope for? He began breathing more quickly, and without thinking reached out a hand to cover Data's. "Data, don't be afraid…"

Data's obvious surprise was subtle and cruel, like a paper cut, and Picard snatched his hand back even before Data could reach out to remove it. He seemed to recover quickly, however, and when he spoke Picard imagined a coldness in his voice that had not been there before. "I am not afraid. I was merely going to suggest that you might be concerned that anything you say would damage our friendship, since the nature of words is that they may be neither recalled nor forgotten. However, I will undertake to erase all record of this discussion from my memory banks should you ask me to do so. I would not only forget what you have said, I would have no memory of you having said it. You may speak with impunity, Captain."

Automatically, Picard shook his head. "That would be unfair. I couldn't ask you to do that."

"You do not need to: I have offered."

The simple statement moved Picard to further tears: he felt their hot sting and blinked in shame. He noticed that, this time, Data made no move to wipe them away: he might not love his Captain, but his concern and sensitivity were unselfconsciously honest and true, and Picard was strangely humbled. He felt acutely uncomfortable: how could he even think of forcing this elusive, wonderful man into a place so alien to him? With a sudden rush of peace and sadness, he smiled. "I don't think we have anything to discuss, Mr Data. I've been – adjusting to your presence here, and not managing it very well, I'm afraid. If I've taken that out on you, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – I've been confused, searching for something – "

"Captain."

" – that I hardly knew myself. It – wasn't quite as I'd expected, and I do like life to be well-ordered and tidy, you know that. The pleasure your return has given me – my happiness at your being here – I thought I could become more to you than – "

"Sir!"

" – and I suppose I just lost touch with reality for a while. Data, I will never cease to count myself blessed in your return – it's an irony, isn't it, to be eternally grateful to Q? I know I'm not your Jean-Luc, however much I might… But your kindness, your – gentleness – towards me – it gives me the strength to go on, to value every moment of you, to – "

"Jean-Luc!"

" – grab your friendship with both – what did you say?"

"I have been endeavouring to attract your attention, sir. I apologise for addressing you in such a manner, but you were not listening."

"No," Picard said quietly. "I guess I wasn't. I'm sorry."

"Captain. You have said enough. I understand." Data's eyes shone, but Picard did not see it. All he was conscious of were the words, their implied dismissal, the fact that he had given way at last to his feelings and let his tongue run away with him. He should have held his peace: could anyone have been a greater fool?

He bowed his head and vowed never to vex Data again.

Then something changed. The hand he stared at as it rested on the table was not his own: the fingers were longer, the fingernails more delicate and tapered, the skin more sallow and smooth. It was Data's hand, and his own was beneath it. He was bemused, hardly able to absorb the warmth, to understand the reason behind it. Bewildered, he raised his eyes to those of his companion, and finally saw the tears that mirrored his own. "Data?" he whispered.

"As I said," Data said softly, "I understand." He reached out his free hand and traced the contours of Picard's face as if seeing them for the first time. "You are astonishingly beautiful, Captain. I do not know why I never noticed it before."

Picard could find no words. The emotions that suffocated him with their insistent, overwhelming violence seemed to have removed his power of speech, and all he could do was turn his hand over beneath Data's, holding it fast as though he would never let it go. Joy surged through him like an avalanche. He wanted to scream.

"Nothing to say, Jean-Luc?" Picard heard the name, the subtle teasing in Data's voice, and thrilled to the knowledge of what they meant. What they promised.

Dropping his eyes fixed from those deep golden ones, Picard leaned in and kissed the inside of Data's wrist with a strange, slow reverence. He trailed his fingers around the fine-boned knuckles, caressing the length of each of Data's own fingers before lifting the hand to his face and kissing each finger tip in turn. He was shaking and light-headed with bliss.

Data loved him. After it all, Data loved him! Picard didn't know why, or how, or what had caused him suddenly to say so, and right then didn't care. Overwhelmed by happiness, he laughed and trembled and bit his lip in anticipation.

When words finally came, they were not what he expected, but they were perhaps as good as any to usher in the rest of his life. "You know, Mr Data, I've always loved your hands."

* * *

_To be concluded in the separately-posted M-rated story 'A Dream before Dying: Epilogue'_


End file.
